


honey whiskey

by a_taller_tale



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Anal Sex, Chorus-Era, Confessions, Drinking, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation, Post-Season/Series 13, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7255714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, passing a bottle of whiskey, something happens between Grif and Simmons that neither of them can take back. Apparently alcohol lowers inhibitions. Who knew?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Okay, so Grif might have overestimated how much alcohol he needed to get drunk. 

He was still a stupid kid when he got drafted and he could put away a 30 pack of beer in a night with a couple buddies back then, easy. He was a big guy too and there was an art to that. You had to build up a base buzz and then maintain it in order to have a good time. 

So when he’d acquired the first bottle of hard liquor he’d had access to in close to a year and they survived the latest battle for their lives, he took a few burning swigs before Simmons even got to the corner of the supply area he’d decided would make a good off-duty hangout space that wasn’t their bunks. 

Where he went wrong was that his tolerance was not on par with his 19-year-old self. Also, none of the others had come, so he was just passing the bottle of honey whiskey between himself and Simmons, feeling the world get fuzzier and warmer and just wanting to keep the feeling strong. 

Grif was getting to the point where he was worse off than Simmons, which was so unbelievably pathetic, but he could tell from the flush to Simmons’ cheeks and the goofy content smile on his face that Simmons was feeling pretty good too. 

Plus, making fun of everyone who wasn’t them was one of their favorite activities on nights like this.

It was also nice just telling Simmons about shit that happened when they weren’t together. Much as he sure as hell didn’t miss the canyon, Chorus was a lot different than living on Red Base. They had like, jobs now. They didn’t hang out like this as much anymore. Sometimes it fucking sucked. 

“Then Sarge starts arguing about proper dismount,” Grif relayed. “So Donut just shows up because you know he heard that opportunity coming miles away.”

“Oh god,” Simmons chuckled, taking another drink of the whiskey and setting the bottle aside. Grif’s eyes followed the movement as he swallowed. 

“And then Donut did this split. I swear to God, dude, Palomo’s eyes were going to fall out of his head.”

Simmons threw his head back laughing, mouth open. His hair had grown out in front and he’d been less militant about keeping it neatly trimmed lately, so it fell into his eyes. It was so rare to see him that unselfconscious, Grif felt… 

Grif didn’t realize he’d been scooting closer until he was hovering over Simmons. 

When Simmons noticed how close Grif was, he jerked and smacked the back of his head into the wall. “Ow,” he muttered, looking up at Grif with wide eyes.

Well, one wide eye and one robot eye and his hair still in his dumb face. 

Grif reached up to flick it out of the way, but paused at the heat generating from Simmons. His mouth was slightly open, but it seemed like he was holding his breath. 

Grif slid his hand down his jaw. Simmons’ lips were redder than normal from the bite of the whiskey. 

Simmons’ throat bobbed. "G-Grif-"

It was about this time Grif realized he drank way too much, and he should probably stop before he did something really stupid. Grif needed to back off right the fuck now and let Simmons go and put himself to bed and act like nothing happened. Cuz nothing happened. Nothing that couldn’t be denied or undone. 

Grif pulled back at the same time Simmons surged forward and kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apparently alcohol lowers inhibitions. Who knew?

_Holy shit._

Grif barely had time for a sharp breath before he had a lap full of Simmons and a mouth on his mouth. 

He may have flailed a little, which was more of a Simmons move normally, but Simmons was busy licking into Grif’s mouth right then. His hands finally settled in the back of Simmons’ shirt, and then bunched in the fabric to hang on. 

Thoughts? What were thoughts? Thoughts were things other people had when their best friend wasn’t kissing them. 

Simmons didn’t kiss like Grif thought he would. He was needy, sure. But it was good once Grif slowed him down a little. It was good. It was so good. 

_The nerd is kissing me. And the nerd does not kiss like a nerd._

Grif felt dizzy and he couldn’t tell what was the whiskey and what was Simmons cupping his face like the most surreal daydream.

He never… Never thought that Simmons could... That he would…

He wanted to do some crazy shit like tell everyone on base what was happening. PSA over the sound system. Simmons would fucking kill him.

A moan slipped out when Simmons sucked on his tongue. 

He had to marry the fuck out of this guy.

Grif pulled Simmons in tighter and Simmons groaned into his mouth and rocked his hips slightly. 

_Fuck._ Grif broke away with a gasp. 

Simmons made a mournful noise at the loss of his mouth, face redder than before, his hair all screwed up again, eyes half-lidded taking in Grif’s state. Then he blinked.

The change was almost instantaneous, color draining from him and expression going slack with horror. “Oh my god.”

“What—“

“Oh my god. I—You—Ohmygod.”

“Simmons, no.” Grif’s brain was moving sluggishly from one thought to the next, but he’d known this guy for years now. He could tell what was going to happen and was just too slow to think of how to stop it. “Stop. It’s okay.”

“I have to go. I have to go.” Simmons fell off of Grif’s lap, which seemed to renew how freaked out he was. When he scrambled upright he nearly ran into the wall before correcting awkwardly and angling out of there faster than they used to retreat back to Red Base when they ran out of ammo.

Grif stared at the spot Simmons had been for a minute. There was still a half bottle of whiskey left. He wasn’t drunk enough to think about this. 

“…Fuck.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hangovers set in early.

Grif drank until he realized he was half asleep using a sack of flour as a pillow. Looked like he’d broken into the mess hall. It was probably close to morning by now. 

Grif dragged his body upright, He only felt partially connected to it, probably due to the vertigo that settled in when he stopped drinking and started dozing. Or maybe it was because he had just ruined his own life. Could be that part.

Don’t think about it. 

Don’t think about how he sounded. The feeling of his weight right _there_. The other sounds he would have made if they…

Stop. 

Grif put his palm up against the wall and stopped moving for a sec when his stomach flipped on him. 

Well, nausea would make it easier to not be all hot and bothered over his best friend and the worst mistake of his life. He’d been planning to leave the whiskey because just looking at the bottle made him feel ill, but what if he needed it later? 

Grif’s brain helpfully replayed the panicked note in Simmons’ voice. The last moments he was there. The look of _horror_ on his face. 

Fuck.

Somehow he made it back to his room. Regret and inebriation made it an eternity. 

Sometimes when they drank Simmons would remind him to drink a full glass of water before sleeping and brag about how he was always able to avoid the hangover. That was probably more due to being descended from generations of alcoholics with tough livers or whatever. But sure, okay Simmons, believe in your stupid _water_ theory. 

Grif threw himself into his bunk with the bottle and weakly punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape. He was not getting up for shit. He deserved a hangover anyway. 

-

Simmons drank two glasses of water before bed. 

He was shaking, gulping them down. One and then the other. Then of course he had to get up to go to the bathroom at four in the morning, but he was feeling a lot more clear and sober by then. 

Which sucked actually. 

Because Grif. 

He _kissed_ Grif. 

Simmons had kissed people before, of course. Well, been kissed. Once. So he knew how it went. All the ins and outs of that. 

Grif hadn’t been trying to push him off or anything, right? 

No, he… That smug confident asshole had actually _moaned_ for him. 

Simmons shuddered climbing back into his bed, fingers going numb from the sudden rush of warmth pooling in his belly. 

Oh god. 

He’d never felt a rush like having someone under him sounding like that. 

Grif’s lips languidly responding to the frenzy Simmons felt. The sudden urge to crowd him against the wall and shut him up. Not that he’d been talking just then. Grif had been stupid drunk. But the.. touching him. Getting so up in his space and then backing off. It was enough to drive someone completely insane. 

Not that he’d ever thought of shutting him up that way before. Nothing like what happened had ever crossed his mind. Really. 

Okay, he had that one dream that one time but he could _hardly_ be blamed for anything his subconscious came up with. 

He did not want _Grif_ that way. 

Except, Simmons had kissed him. 

No. No, no. Grif had been leaning in and Simmons just accidentally leaned forward and their faces bumped together and Simmons fell in his lap. And accidentally French-kissed his best friend. _It was all an accident, dammit._

Simmons’ face heated. They didn’t call it French-kissing anymore did they? It sounded babyish somehow. What did they call it? 

Calm down. Stop thinking thoughts. 

He’d fantasized about making Grif shut up before. Follow his orders. Ever since that time Grif had insisted on following Simmons to Blue Base when Simmons was heroically spying on the Blues and commandeering their base in Blood Gulch while they were gone.

 _“Come on, Simmons, I’m your_ prisoner. _You should be jabbing me in the back with your gun!”_

Now every train of thought brought him back to that gasp Grif made when... Simmons bit his bottom lip hard and _squirmed_.

How was he going to face anyone tomorrow? 

How was he going to face Grif?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blame the headache.

“Hey, get up, fat-ass! It’s almost noon!”

Simmons was at his door. Grif knew they were sharing a planet and everything but he sort of thought he would never see Simmons ever again. And here he was. And Grif did not want to see him. 

Was the door locked? No, of course it wasn’t. 

Temporarily, his body forgot that he had completely fucked it up and he got about a foot off the pillow before the nerves in his brain had enough and slammed him with pain. He let out a very unmanly whimper. 

“Grif?” Dropping the bitchy tone for one of concern, Simmons let himself in. He was totally armored up, which had Grif at a disadvantage for gauging how he felt about the night before, but he’d been reading the nerd’s body language through armor for years now. It still wouldn’t be that hard. 

“Wow, you look like shit. Did you have a glass of water before bed?” 

Oh good, they were pretending it never happened. Grif glared. “Fuck you, I didn’t.” Grif tried to roll a bit to get a better vantage on Simmons without actually getting up and rolled right into the whiskey bottle he crawled into bed with. 

“Oh my god, how much did you drink after I left? The bottle’s almost empty!” 

_”I—you—Ohmygod.”_

“Fuck, Simmons, you just answered your own question. You have anything to knock me out again?” 

“You can’t sleep all day, asshole. We have patrol.” Simmons hesitated. “Sarge sent me.” 

That made sense. Simmons was an avoider. Grif could see in the way his fingers twitched that he had probably fought Sarge on getting Grif. 

“Fuck him, dude. I’m calling in sick.” 

Bitch though he might, Simmons would normally have huffed and left by now, instead he said, “You used up all your sick days for the rest of eternity. Get up.” 

Grif blinked back. “Make me.” 

“Don’t think I won’t, Grif!” Simmons stomped out to the hall, returning a minute later from his room with pills and a fucking glass of water. 

Grif had sort of thought Simmons would be freaking out. He weakly made grabby hands at the pills and water. His stomach churned worryingly and he felt dizzy and sick and slow and sort of confused and he couldn’t see Simmons’ face so instead he could imagine the way he looked before, lips swollen and eyes so dark… 

If he was smart he’d leave it alone. They’d go back to their old normal after a few days, maybe a week, and pretend it never happened. 

Grif was not smart. 

“Why did you do it?” Grif asked. 

”W-What?” Simmons stammered back. He looked like he wanted to disappear and never have this conversation. 

“You heard me. But just, fuck it. Whatever.” Grif laid back against the pillows. 

After a few audible breaths sounding close to hyperventilation, Simmons took off his helmet so he could look at Grif eye to eye. “You… wanna talk about it?” 

“No, I don’t fucking want to talk about it. That’s why I asked you the question. You’re the one who opened this shit up.” 

“I—What the hell, Grif. I was—Don’t blame me, I was drunk too, and you were the one getting all—YOU’RE THE ONE WHO—“ 

Grif punched the mattress, forced himself to ignore the stab of pain in his head and swung his legs over the bed, standing at his full height. He was a few inches shorter than Simmons, but more solid. Simmons shrank back like he was the unarmored one. 

“How long have you fucking known, Simmons?” Simmons knew, and instead of dropping him as a friend, or ignoring it, or ANY OTHER THING he—WHY? 

Simmons hit the wall with the back of his head and winced, but Grif couldn’t back off. He was practically having an out of body experience with all the rage and adrenaline flowing through him. 

“Known _what_? I don’t even know what you’re _talking_ about now!” Simmons said. 

Grif was crowding Simmons’ space and his eyes flicked down to Grif’s lips. When he noticed the movement his rare anger intensified. “You need to get out of my room. And don’t talk to me for a while, okay? Send Donut if Sarge needs me.” 

Simmons was glaring back. “I hate you. You can’t just say something vague and expect people to get it. I feel like we’re having two conversations! Grif, _just tell me_.” 

Grif could blame the hangover. The headache. Maybe he was still a little drunk. He could never tell Simmons, but he could show him. 

\- 

"Uh. What're you doing?" Simmons said as Grif moved into his space. 

Grif just kept getting closer, and he was so _angry._ Grif never got angry, it was totally fucking him up. "Grif?" 

Instead of the lash-out Simmons was expecting, Grif leaned in, sharing his breath, brushed Simmons’ lips softly with his own. 

Once, twice, again. 

They were kissing. 

Slow, gentle, Grif’s hand moving up his armor and onto his bare neck, sending a strange tingle shooting around his body like a pinball to distract him from his rapid heartbeat. 

Simmons felt the question marks and exclamation points around his head dissolve into nothing as he fell into the tender sensation. He felt… cherished somehow. His arms were up to pull Grif closer when Grif broke away, backing off a step. 

Grif had the most raw vulnerable look Simmons had ever seen. 

“You’re not responsible for what I feel, but you’re responsible for what you do,” Grif said. 

Simmons couldn’t stop taking in every detail of his posture, the emotion in his eyes. “Grif… I didn’t… I didn’t kn—” 

Grif’s breath caught and then he closed his eyes. “Get the fuck out of my room, Simmons.” 

Simmons did what he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening to "i don't love you too" by olly murs


	5. Chapter 5

Simmons felt like he was going to have an aneurysm. Maybe he already did. He had knocked his head a few times.

He was sure his face was glowing and he couldn’t decide which emotion to focus on. 

Grif was in lo— 

His brain blanked before he could even think the word. Which was fine because Grif couldn’t say it either. How was Simmons supposed to have known then? 

He couldn't even figure out why he had kissed Grif at all. He could blame the whiskey. He could blame the way Grif was looking at him, touching him... 

He wandered into the mess hall instead of where Sarge was waiting. Fuck he left his helmet in Grif’s room. Fuck. 

_Grif…_

His face burned as he stuttered his way through getting a lunch to pick at. Instead of eating it he sucked down a yoo-hoo to pacify himself. 

Grif never showed up for lunch. 

Maybe he was too sick to eat. That was worrying. 

Usually Simmons would have gone to check on him again by now. Make him drink another glass of water. Make fun of him for being hungover. 

_”You’re not responsible for what I feel, but you’re responsible for what you do.”_

Grif really thought he knew? How could he know? They were the same as they ever were. 

Until Simmons got drunk and kissed his best friend. 

Until it triggered Grif to confess his...feelings. 

Simmons smacked his head into the table in embarrassment. 

"Ow," that was a lot harder than he meant to do it. 

He rubbed his forehead. Was this it? Had Simmons fucked everything up? Was it over? 

Simmons wandered through the rest of the day half aware and giving one word answers. He checked in with his squad and Sarge to let everyone know he was taking the afternoon off for personal time. When Donut made a crack about how important personal time was, Simmons couldn’t even muster the usual energy into telling him to shut up. They all looked at him strangely. 

Late that night, Simmons mustered up the courage to go to Grif’s room to retrieve his helmet. Grif wasn’t there, and Simmons felt simultaneous relief and a little frustration. 

It wasn’t in either of their natures to talk things out, but it felt like they were teetering on the edge of a cliff that was the total annihilation of their relationship. 

They had written communication capabilities in their helmet's HUD, but it was 50/50 whether people were wearing armor these days when they were off duty, so they all had detachable communicators too. Simmons fiddled with his a long time, staring at the ceiling above his bed. 

[ _Simmons: What if I want things to stay the same?_ ] 

It seemed to take ages for a response. It was seven minutes, a small eternity where Simmons berated himself over and over and over for sending anything. Finally it buzzed back. 

[ _Grif: then things stay the same._ ] 

A minute later, as if Grif knew he had to be specific, as if he just knew Simmons was looking for the cracks in it—the ways this could still hurt him—another message came through. 

[ _Grif: we'll be fine. you just can't kiss me dude._ ] 

Simmons felt some tension leave his body at that. Someone who had become the most important person to him wasn’t just going to drop him because it got weird. He wanted to cry in relief. 

Things would get better. 

“We’ll be fine,” he repeated to himself. “I just can’t kiss him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif would rather kiss Sarge's bare ass than have another conversation about feelings right now.

The smoke billowed out from Grif's hiding spot, giving away his position if anyone cared to look. But no one did. The communicator never buzzed again.

Grif sighed out the smoke, savoring the taste in his mouth and stretched. He was feeling better. Well. Physically. Stupid body needing water to not shut down. 

Grif looked down at the silent communicator and wanted to curl up and hug his knees to his chest like a hurt kid. 

Instead he just furthered his sprawl. 

They’d be fine. They’d been fine for years. No reason to change. He would just erase the memory of drunkenly thinking he and Simmons were gonna end up together. 

Grif thought he’d shelved that thought a long time ago. But when Simmons kissed him all those feelings flew right up to the surface like he’d never been suppressing them to begin with. 

It would be fine. He just had to get himself together before he saw Simmons again. 

“Why are you sitting on the _ground_ in an alley? It’s unsanitary!” 

Grif sighed, taking another slow drag on his cig before putting it out on the ground next to him. He tried to look less bummed out before looking up at Simmons. “You see any benches around here?” 

Simmons pointed about six feet away at a scrap metal bench set up under a military floodlight. 

“Yeah, yeah…” 

Simmons considered the bench, but seemed to realize there was no way in hell Grif was going to get up from his effortfully apathetic sprawl to sit on a damn bench, so the nerd gingerly sat down next to him on the curb, swiping the cigarette butt out of the way. 

They sat in silence for a minute. Simmons was fidgeting a lot, taking a few deep breaths like he was preparing to say something. Which was stupid. Grif didn’t want to be a dick about this, he wasn’t an asshole, but he would rather kiss Sarge’s bare ass than have another feelings conversation right now. 

He wanted another cigarette. 

“I um…” Simmons’ voice was squeaky and strained and Grif could go a few lifetimes without having to face his third or fourth rejection from Simmons in less than 24 hours. 

“I think. I just. Sat in old piss,” Simmons finished. 

Grif did look at him then, and the flesh side of Simmons’ face was projecting NIGHTMARE-NIGHTMARE-NIGHTMARE, but he was frozen and in shock and didn’t know how to get himself out of the situation he was currently in. It was the same look he got when girls tried to talk to him. 

“Pft.” Grif snickered at him, earning a pissy glare. “Alright, let’s go break into the mess hall. I need hangover breakfast,” he said, pulling Simmons up. 

“I need a shower. Breakfast? Really? It’s almost midnight!” 

“I’m a maverick, dude. Time has no meaning and I can have breakfast whenever I feel like it.” 

Simmons followed him. They were caught and reprimanded severely by one of the higher officers of the New Army of Chorus. 

They were okay.


	7. Chapter 7

Simmons didn’t realize things had already changed until two days later.

They were in the mess eating lunch and Simmons pushed over the half sandwich he’d been picking at, because Grif had been making eyes at it for a good twenty minutes.

Simmons always gave in to him in the end, but he had his pride. He waited the requisite twenty minutes until he was sure he was full, punching Grif’s greedy hands away while he and Tucker challenged Caboose’s lack of logic.

Tucker still sat with them at lunch sometimes, left over from when it was just Grif, Simmons, Tucker, and Caboose in the mess hall speculating whether the rest of their friends were dead or not. It was a little depressing. These days, Sarge put up token protest on the Reds and Blues integrated table, but he also seemed secretly pleased to have the enemy so close. It was heartwarming.

The others had left already, and it was just him and Grif.

But, it’s not like it was _weird_ or anything. They addressed that and now everything was totally normal.

Yup. Totally.

Not weird at all.

100% g—

“Will you stop glaring at me, Simmons? If you don’t want me to eat your food in front of you, just ask. We’ll be happy to leave the room so we can be alone.”

“I wasn’t glaring at—Shut up!” He wasn’t glaring, but he _had_ been staring. Watching Grif’s mouth.

—While he was eating. What the fuck. Gross.

His artificial heart hummed as his blood rushed to his face. 

Grif swallowed his last bite and started licking the bacon grease off his fingers.

Simmons forgot his humiliation about staring—because he had _not_ been staring dammit—to watch raptly.

He suddenly wished he had finished that sandwich because he was starting to feel really hungry and the bacon was good and Simmons never really paid much attention to Grif’s hands but he had really thick fingers. Big hands.

Grif wasn’t even licking them in a dramatic way, but god he was licking them. In _public_.

Grif’s eyes closed as he savored the last space bacon they would have until the next supply shipment arrived. Simmons really wanted a taste—

Uh. Of the bacon.

Obviously.

He hadn’t had enough of it. Stupid Grif.

“You’re acting weirder than usual, dude. Maybe you should write mission reports or something. “

“You mean write _your_ mission reports?” Simmons growled.

“Of course, you have such a good system. Who am I to screw that up?”

Grif gave him another look when Simmons didn’t protest more than that, and it was probably weird. But Simmons' ears were burning even though it was definitely sarcasm and not real praise of his organizational skills. He really wanted to go write up mission reports.

-

Simmons had no idea what he was doing outside Grif’s door that evening but he couldn’t stop thinking about Grif’s hands and that dumb look Grif got on his face when he thought he manipulated Simmons into doing his work for him—Simmons was completely aware he was being manipulated, thanks, but Grif had a good point that he wouldn’t do it the way Simmons wanted, so he let him _think_ he won _and—_

Oh, Grif was staring at him. Had Simmons not been saying anything for long?

“I think I might. Um. Want to. With you. Again,” Simmons finished and then immediately wanted to knock his head into a wall, but he was not near any at the moment.

Maybe it hadn’t been a coherent English sentence, because it took Grif a minute to react, but then his face was real surprise, and it was rare Grif ever showed it when he was surprised. He probably looked surprised when Simmons kissed him too. It… It felt really good to making him react in a way other than that bullshit cocky sarcasm.

Then Grif’s eyes narrowed. “Are you drunk?”

“No. I don’t know. Shut up. I take it back.” But he felt like he was. Whatever had propelled him to Grif’s door was suddenly evolving into blind panic that climbed his throat and whited out behind his eyes. What was he thinking?  

“No takebacks,” Grif said, pulling him into his bedroom. Grif was trying to sound bored and unaffected, but his eyes were down and to the side. “So, you’re looking for a friends-with-benefits thing?”

“Like friends-with-very-specific benefits. And it can’t be weird.”

Grif looked like he was going to say something stupid, like that no one could demand it not be weird because this whole situation was already feeling like reality was warping. Like Simmons had drunk too much whiskey even though he hadn’t touched anything since that night. This was soooo risky, but it was so hard to remember that when he thought about Grif’s lips and his mouth and his fingers and wanting to hear that _noise_ he made again. But Simmons was still ready to bolt if there were any doubts they could still get out of this, dammit he was so stupid, he should just leave it alone, what was he _thinking_ —

“Okay,” Grif said.

“'Okay'? Just like that? You don’t even have to think about it?”

Grif looked like he was going to snap something, and then shook his head, visibly switching gears. “Do _you_ need to think about it? You came to me. What do you have to have a contract? A list of rules?”

Crap, he should have written a list of rules.

“…You’re thinking about writing a list of rules, aren’t you.”

“Shut up, Grif.” This was an unbelievably stupid idea. What was he _thinking_? Where was the door? It was behind him, right? Simmons groped behind him for the keypad.

“Why are you in my room, Simmons? You’re really just gonna march in here and then freak out and run away again?”

Simmons stopped reaching for the door. “I didn’t run away! I had stuff to do!”

“You suddenly had stuff to do. After drinking all night and spontaneously making out with me.”

“Y-you don’t know.” Simmons straightened and marched back over to Grif. “I do important work around here, Grif! I needed to run several reports!”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Simmons.”

“Goddammit, Grif!” Simmons shoved him a little, getting in Grif’s space. Grif’s back hit the wall, and he had the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face and _he was so irritating._

Simmons hesitated a moment with his palms to either side of Grif, trapping him against the wall. Want churning with worry pounded against his veins. His face was hot.

“You didn’t want things to change?” Grif asked, looking up at him, one eyebrow arched in doubt.

“Fuck it.” Simmons pressed in.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons doesn't have time to make the list. The "benefits" are happening.

“Mmph—“ Grif’s hands went up defensively, then Simmons’ felt one hesitantly sliding around his waist, as if Grif was afraid he’d leave again. He didn’t have to worry this time. Simmons was shakier, but definitely sober, and he wasn’t going to leave after Grif challenged him like that. 

Despite that hint of doubt, Grif seemed mostly unaffected. Maybe this wasn’t a big deal to him. Maybe he did this all the time- No, Simmons would have noticed him hooking up with someone. Right? Sure they hadn’t been spending _as much_ time together but- Then Simmons shifted and he could feel Grif’s heart pounding through his shirt. 

It made a foreign feeling swell up in his chest, and that feeling was confidence. It was heady. 

He trailed his fingers up Grif’s shirt just barely touching his skin. The flesh of his back was so hot. Grif responded with his tongue, pulling back to press into the hand contact, only to dive back into the kiss. 

Encouraged, Simmons moved his hand up farther, spreading his fingers, crowding Grif more against the wall. He went easily, with a soft noise in Simmons’ mouth. 

Simmons hummed back in response. Grif sounded so good. Simmons was making him sound like that. There was little chance of anyone coming to investigate Grif’s room, and of course he wouldn’t bother being quiet. But Simmons didn’t really think he’d be so… vocal. 

Suddenly seized by some weird panic that Grif was exaggerating how into this he was and it was all being recorded and Tucker was going to jump out of the closet along with Simmons’ entire squad and all of them would laugh at him for being so gullible. He pulled back a little. Their faces were still so close. It was just Grif, both eyes all pupil, breathing shallow and looking back at him like all his boredom had melted away and he was as anxious as Simmons was about what was happening between them. 

And then Grif blinked and the worry was gone and instead his hand closed around the back of Simmons’ neck to pull him back in. “Stop thinking, idiot.” 

It was normally so hard to stop thinking. There was always something to analyze, but here there was just Grif. Grif kissed slowly, like he was savoring, tasting. It was… good, but was there something wrong? Did people normally do it this way? Should he speed up? Slow down? What should he be doing with his hands? 10 and 2? No, that was a car. Uh… 

Simmons wanted to pull away again to check on him, but Grif seemed to get that Simmons was thinking even more now, and snuck a hand up into Simmons’ hair and _gripped._

“Ah—” Simmons gasped against his lips and Grif took the opening to slip his tongue into Simmons’ mouth, as he tugged again gently. 

In his right mind Simmons might have been annoyed that this part, the tongue part, was going a lot more smoothly this time. Like Grif had definitely done this before, and was it noticeable Simmons maybe hadn’t too much? Like, he totally _had_ but— 

Shit. His hair being tugged to the roots made his stomach drop and he pressed himself against Grif, which made the other jerk. _Yeah, bitch. Who’s better at this now?_

They started a rolling rhythm, rocking their hips into each other and he could _feel_ how much Grif wanted him. _Him._ There wasn’t a lot of room for pride, since Grif could feel just how much Simmons wanted this too. 

They moved together, sharing breath until Simmons had to break away from Grif’s mouth to pant against his neck. The friction was good but it would be better if they could just get… 

Grif seemed to realize he needed to take charge for them to move forward and Simmons felt him let go from where he had been clinging just as fiercely to Simmons. Simmons blinked slowly as Grif licked his palm and telegraphed his movements until his warm wet hand was skimming down into Simmons’ pants. 

Simmons nearly fell over at the feeling of Grif’s hand gripping his dick. A strangled whine escaped him and his palms slapped against the wall behind Grif’s head to hold himself up as he instinctively thrust up into the contact. 

Grif was breathing heavily, eyes locked on Simmons’ face, which made him want to hide but he didn’t want Grif to stop touching him. God, it was Grif. Grif was touching him like this. Grif was moving his hand up and down slow and Simmons definitely couldn’t think anymore beyond the sensation that another person was touching him there. It was Grif. He closed his eyes, a tremble going through his whole body. 

“Bed.” Grif murmured and then they were the few feet into Grif’s unmade bed and it smelled like him. Simmons avoided looking at Grif as he shucked his shirt and then awkwardly wriggled out of his pants. Grif had undressed faster than Simmons had ever seen him move, even with Sarge shooting at his feet.  
  
_Oh jeez. Don’t think about Sarge._

For a second they both stared at each other naked and Simmons was afraid the move to the bed had interrupted the delicate mood they had and everything was ruined. Maybe he should just put his clothes back on. 

But then Grif crawled up the bed starting at his feet to kneel over Simmons. He leaned down and Simmons tipped his head up and they kissed again and it should be so weird, but it felt so right, and they were touching from their thighs to their shoulders. Simmons could feel Grif against his inner thigh and if he just moved up a little. Simmons wrapped his arms around Grif’s back pulling him down as he thrust his hips up. 

“Ha- Simmons- Wait—” 

Alarm bolted through him, breaking the foggy warmth of arousal. “What—What did I do?” 

“You’re fine. Just hang on.” Grif half-extricated himself to lean over and reach for the nightstand, rifling through it without getting all the way up to produce a small blue tube. 

“Lube? G-Grif I don’t—” He didn’t really know how to word what he wanted to say here. 

“We’re not gonna fuck. It’ll just make this easier.” He popped the cap up with one hand, squeezing a generous amount into his palm before dumping the still open bottle over the side. 

“You’re not even going to cap it? It’s going to dry out—” Simmons hissed as Grif rubbed it in between them, taking ahold of himself and then Simmons. Settling back in to thrust against him. It was so slippery, but he was right, it was better. Simmons couldn’t remember his complaint, biting his lip against a groan. “Fuck.” 

Earlier it was hard to look at him, but now Simmons couldn’t look away his nails digging into Grif’s back as Grif made him feel… Simmons tossed his head back into the pillow and Grif followed, kissing and sucking at his neck as his hand moved more firmly and his thrusts sped up. 

They were both breathing hard and it took a while to realize Grif was murmuring something into his neck over the moans Simmons was trying and failing to hold back. He wanted to know what he was saying, but then Grif scraped his teeth against a tendon in his neck and he was coming, clutching Grif's back for something to hang onto as his hips twitched and his vision tunneled. Grif moaned low directly in his ear, as Simmons’ climaxed and then he felt a foreign hot splash on his stomach and he was shuddering again because that was Grif. He made Grif come. 

Still shaking a little from the intensity, Simmons kissed Grif at the corner of his mouth, his chin, his bottom lip, nuzzled into his neck as they both came back down. Their breathing slowed together. Grif swept Simmons’ forehead of the bangs sticking to it. With a last kiss, Grif showed rare initiative and grabbed an old t-shirt from the floor to wipe them off. Simmons could barely keep his eyes open to complain about how the t-shirt had probably been down there on the floor for a week. When Grif just settled back into bed, throwing an arm and a leg over him, he couldn’t be bothered to remember what the point was anyway. 


	9. Chapter 9

Simmons was a restless sleeper, but Grif was a deep sleeper, so he was only aware of Simmons kicking around twice.

Both times Grif moved Simmons’ ridiculously long limbs out of the knots of blankets he had trapped himself in and then shook them back out over them.

Simmons always complained about being cold at night. Grif habitually took all the blankets from his bunk at lights-out to piss him off in Blood Gulch, until Simmons confessed he was cold because he had circulation problems since the cyborg operation. Since then, Grif begrudgingly gave up the game, but it was a dirty trick bringing that shit up.

Remembering the cold, Grif slipped his arm around Simmons’ waist and pulled him in so his back was lined up to Grif’s chest and the tension melted out of both of them. They fit. And if Simmons preferred being the little spoon that was fine with him.

Morning eventually came. Despite being relatively content and comfortable, Grif woke up for real before Simmons. He was low-key not looking forward to Simmons waking up, so he extricated himself as slowly as possible, replacing his warmth with blanket.

Military bases still preferred auto-lights to open windows, but he could pretend they were laying in the sun, with a breeze coming in through the open window.

Simmons had switched positions again, but this time he was just laying on his back, head tipped up on the pillow. 

Simmons slept with his mouth open. It wasn’t cute. Mouth-breathing nerd.

He didn’t look bad on Grif’s sheets though.

Grif leaned up on one elbow and abruptly realized they both needed a shower. But would Simmons want to shower with him, even adjacently, or stagger times while he had his inner-freak out? Cuz then Grif could get an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Either was fine.

Simmons snorted, then smacked his lips, eyes opening. “What’d you say…?” he sighed out.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No, you did,” he insisted, blinking slowly at the ceiling. “Last night.”

Heat flooded through him as he remembered Simmons gradually losing it to Grif’s touch, thinking it was so much more unbelievably hot than he thought it would be. That he could listen to Simmons whimper and moan under him every night for the rest of his life.

He was _not_ going to tell Simmons what he said. “Can’t remember.”

Simmons made a sour face that came out as more of a pout since he was rubbing the sleep out of one eye. “Are you making this weird?” This was quite the accusation for someone who _just woke up._

“No.” Grif shot back. “Are _you_ making this weird?”

“N-no! I was just checking that you weren’t! It’s in the rules!”

“You haven’t even written the rules yet.”

Simmons was definitely not able to handle feelings. _Grif_ was barely able to handle feelings, so how the hell would a repressed daddy’s boy cyborg be able to?

“Breakfast,” Grif said. It would be easier to think of how best to spin this so that Simmons wouldn’t freak out after they both had some food.

Simmons sat up, the swell of his cheekbones flushing and a patch of red in a blotchy blush trickling from his neck down his chest, as he probably realized he needed a shower.

Grif wanted to push him down and see how much more flushed he could get him in the light.

Simmons caught his considering look and practically fell off the bed, tripping over his discarded pants when he tried to right himself and barely catching himself against the wall.

“Smooth, dude.”

“Shut up! Shower. Breakfast.”

It took some translating, but it sounded like Simmons wasn’t fleeing the new capital. Looked like Grif would be giving Simmons his shower time to freak out and then he might see him in the mess.

Grif flopped back down into his blankets, not bothering to look away as Simmons threw his discarded clothes back on. Just in case this turned out to be a one-time thing he could fix this fumbling flailing loser struggling with his shirt in his mind.

Simmons flipped back and forth between scowling and completely short circuiting and Grif gave him a wave from the bed as he stumbled out into the hallway.

His bed smelled like Simmons.

Extra sleep it was.


	10. Chapter 10

Simmons was carefully not thinking about anything at all. Definitely not about Grif. Not about the way his shaggy hair looked after he slept on it, or that slow warm smile, or that _look_ he gave Simmons like he was going to pounce on him that triggered Simmons’ fight or flight response. 

Simmons wasn’t freaking out. 

He wasn’t freaking out because he wasn’t thinking about it. At all. Nope, not at all. 

Simmons marched mechanically to the showers and of course Donut was coming out with just a lightish-red towel around his waist and another wrapped around his head. “Simmons! Good morning!” 

“Hi,” Simmons said shortly, very aware of how he needed a shower and why he needed a shower, and tried to walk past him to get to the changing room. 

Because that’s what changing rooms were _for,_ Donut. For fucking changing so you’re not walking around base in a towel making other people uncomfortable. 

_Of course_ Donut cheerfully stepped in his path. He hated Donut. 

“There’s something _different_ about you, Simmons.” 

“What?” Simmons just knew he was going red again. Fuck. “W-what do you mean?” 

Donut tapped a perfectly manicured finger against his chin. “You’re _glowing_ this morning. Are you finally using the moisturizer I gave you for Christmas five years ago?” 

“Yeah, that’s it!” Simmons tried to run for the door again, but Donut’s arm snapped out and got an iron grip on his flesh arm. 

“No, that’s not it. Your skin is still _far_ too dry and patchy. Hmmm…” 

Oh god, _he knows._ Simmons struggled, but Donut’s grip tightened, digging his nails in. __

“I- _I slept with Grif, okay?!_ ” 

Donut gasped theatrically, eyes sparkling with fiendish delight. He also let go of Simmons, who wasted no time in dashing into the locker room, slamming the door behind him. 

_Fuck._

Don’t panic. Don’t hyperventilate. 

He should have known Donut would torture him for information. 

Simmons should probably go right back to Grif’s room and tell him the entire base was going to know in three minutes. He hadn’t written up the rules yet, but he’d been thinking maybe they’d keep it secret for a while. Not because of- well- Just, that’s what you did, right? When you were just friends? 

He did not go back to Grif’s room. Hiding in the shower was way easier. What was he even going to say? 

How was he supposed to act after… 

A shiver went through him as he stood under the hot water, remembering how Grif touched him. His warm voice in his ear, his teeth scraping against his neck. 

Simmons swallowed, trying to soap himself up quickly, but he kept thinking of Grif’s eyes, so focused on Simmons in a way no one else ever was. 

Grif really seemed like he wanted him. Simmons. 

…Had he ever jerked off thinking about him? 

Maybe even right here? 

Simmons’ hands lingered and he was touching himself, the soap making it easier to stroke. 

He leaned his elbow against the wall, pumping himself fast, half wishing Grif was here with him right now. That moan he made when he lost it, right after Simmons, _because_ of him, echoed in his ears. Biting his lip until it throbbed, Simmons gasped for air as he came, painting the tile in white stripes. 

Cleaning up fast and efficiently, he very carefully didn’t think about what he’d just done as he changed into some spare clothes and walked back to his room to collect his armor. 

He had to write those rules out before breakfast. 

\--- 

By the time Simmons made it to breakfast, Grif and Tucker were already there. It looked like Grif had showered too, or at least dunked his head under the water and didn’t bother to dry it off. 

Just seeing Grif made Simmons' heart pick up and he wanted to go back to his room and hide there until it stopped beating so fast, but that would compromise rule one. _Nothing changes._

__

So he got his breakfast tray. Tucker was complaining loudly as he neared their usual table. 

“It’s just not fair,” Tucker whined. “Is every single asshole on this base getting laid but me? Seriously?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Grif hissed, elbowing Tucker in the gut without looking up from his food. 

That asshole told _Tucker_? 

Simmons was unbelievably pissed until he saw a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye and remembered that he told Donut. But it’s not like that was voluntary! It’s not like he was bragging about it— 

Wait, was Grif bragging about it? 

No, that would be… 

He didn’t see anything different from usual in Grif’s face, but Simmons didn’t really want to take his helmet off to eat. He sat across the table from them, arranging his plate. 

Donut swooped down from out of nowhere and sat right next to him. 

An ambush. 

“Hey Grif. Hiiii Simmons~” 

Grif did look up from his food then to assess Donut, then glared at Simmons. “You told fucking Donut? Really?” 

“You told Tucker! And he’s a Blue! That’s way worse!” 

“You were a Blue a couple times if I remember,” Grif shrugged. “And you didn’t give me the list of rules. I didn’t know it was a secret.” 

Both Tucker and Donut were grinning at Simmons. It was making him really uncomfortable. 

“I call dibs on best man!” Tucker said suddenly. 

“I’m going to be Grif’s best man!” popped out of Simmons’ mouth unbidden. _He_ was Grif’s best friend. 

“Not if you’re the bride, dude.” Tucker said. 

“Oh!" Donut perked up. "I’ll be a bridesmaid! And Sarge can give you away— Oh, or maybe he should officiate. I can’t decide. I’ll have to get out the binder.” He whipped out a book of swatches from seemingly nowhere. “We’ll want to keep it to warm tones for a Red Team wedding.” 

“No one’s going to be a bride!” Simmons said. 

“Other groom, whatever,” Tucker said, waving a hand dismissively. “Hey Caboose! You owe me twenty bucks.” 

And now fucking Caboose was here, wandering over to their table. “Oh. Yes. Hello. Why?” 

“Because I just won a long standing bet with Church and you’re going to honor his debts. He would’ve wanted it that way. Especially if he was still alive.” 

“That doesn’t sound like Church…” 

“Everyone shut up! _We’re not getting married!”_ Simmons shouted. 

Grif was stuffing his face and not being very helpful at all, but he nodded when Tucker, Caboose, and Donut all looked to him for confirmation. 

Donut stuck his lip out. “Well. That’s very disappointing.” He paused as if they would change their minds and then huffed, packing up his wedding planning kit. “Fine. I know when I’m not needed.” 

Tucker looked between Simmons and Grif, and stood up, grabbing Caboose by the back of the neck. “C’mon dude. Let’s go get that twenty bucks.” 

Simmons was still red and breathing hard and he hadn’t even taken his helmet off to eat yet. He stared at his grey scrambled eggs until they blurred, hands trembling with stress and anxiety. 

“Hey,” Grif interrupted, sounding totally normal, but there was a half-second hesitation that made Simmons’ heart skip a beat. “You wanna watch some Battlestar later?” 

Simmons’ hands unclenched, and that suggestion was the most normal thing that had happened since he woke up this morning, so he said “sure” without thinking about it at all. Like it was any normal night. Like being alone together didn't mean something different now. They were always together. _Nothing changes._

Grif didn’t roll his eyes, or judge him, or even smirk. He smiled, warm and fond, before snagging Simmons’ muffin off the tray on his way out of the mess hall. 

Simmons must have glitched or something, because he didn’t start yelling after the asshole for stealing his food until after he was long gone. 


	11. Chapter 11

As soon as Grif took his helmet off to eat his soggy eggs, Tucker pointed straight in his face. _“YOU GOT LAID!”_

He should have known Tucker had the nose of a bloodhound for this sort of thing. Grif rolled his eyes. “I guess it depends what you mean by laid. Are we going biblical definition?” 

“Who was it?” Tucker asked eagerly. “Was it that chick who plays volleyball? Cuz if so, score, but I’d been thinking about putting the moves on her.” 

“You could try.” 

“Okay, so it wasn’t Volleyball.” Tucker waited, but Grif didn’t volunteer anything. “Come on, dude. Just tell me!” 

“Nah. You trying to guess and failing miserably is more fun.” 

Grif threw some eggs and soggy fake bacon in his mouth, not bothering to change the subject, but he kept checking the door for a certain anxious kiss-ass idiot. He’d checked the showers, but Simmons was long gone by the time he got there. He thought he might have come to breakfast by now. 

Not that he was worried. There weren’t many places to go around this base. Simmons seemed a little freaked this morning, but not enough that he would hide and miss a meal, right? 

Grif looked up again for the fifteenth time, and this time Simmons was there, fully armored and edging into the room, shoulders up defensively. Grif hadn’t been worried, but he should have been here a while ago. But he was here, he was just agitated. Him actually showing up was a good sign. Everything would be fine as long as no one pushed him over the edge. 

Something must have showed in his body language when Grif was looking at Simmons walking in the door. Tucker perked up, eyes eager. “It was Simmons? Really?” 

_Crap._ “Say nothing.” 

“I’m just saying congratulations. You’ve had a boner for him for years! Like since…” 

“Let’s not get into specifics.” 

“But how? So you guys are together? Donut must be thrilled.” 

Grif looked up, dead serious. “Don’t tell fucking Donut. He’ll start planning a party or something. And we’re not even really together. It’s more of… a friends-with-benefits situation.” How the hell did Tucker get him to tell him shit like this? 

“Wait—Fuckbuddies? Didn’t you want to marry him and have kids or something?” 

“Shut up.” He would stop getting drunk and having slumber parties with Tucker when Tucker stopped having the hook-up for the good booze. 

“I’m just saying commandment #1 of the 10 Fuckbuddy Commandments is 'no feelings,' and you’ve had a feelings hard-on for Simmons since Blood Gulch.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Well, if you need help convincing him you’d be the perfect stay-at-home Dad for his nerd offspring…” Tucker actually looked pitying and the last thing he needed was pity from Tucker. 

“I don’t. I’m serious. Stay out of it, Tucker.” 

Once Tucker started griping about never getting laid Grif thought they were good. But then Tucker and Donut started talking weddings at Simmons to “subtlely” plant the idea and Grif could see Simmons’ imminent meltdown. 

He was surprised when Simmons agreed to a Battlestar marathon. It was something they did all the time, it would help them get normal again. 

Then he got back to his room. Since they got their own rooms he’d been a little lax about cleaning up. Simmons still picked stuff up for him when he came over but it was a lot less often now... 

He ordered Bitters to do his laundry. Bitters had Matthews do it. Grif admired the delegation, and Matthews was annoying as hell, but he did a good job. 

When Grif got back to his room after skipping training, loitering around the base, and dinner, it actually looked _too neat_. Grif kicked some stuff out from under the bed and threw some clean clothes on the floor, but he left the bed made. 

Then Matthews came back with the popcorn and the movie hookup. 

“Extra butter?” Grif asked, critically examining the kernels. 

“And extra salt!” Matthews proudly presented the bowl waiting for praise. 

“Adequate.” Then he kicked the door shut in Matthews’ beaming face. 

The popcorn was only half gone ten minutes later when there was panicked knocking on his door. Definitely Simmons. 

One, because no one else _knocked_ aside from Matthews, and no one pounded on the door like Simmons did. Second, because after Donut tried to corner him in his room to get him to “dish” he had put Matthews and Bitters under strict orders to guard the hall and only let Simmons through. Bitters had probably wandered off by now, but Matthews was a kiss-ass and would probably stand guard until Grif told him to fuck off sometime next week. 

Grif ran a hand through his hair as he heaved himself off the bed to get the door. It was still a little damp from the extra shower, then he realized he was fucking primping and stopped. 

Simmons was on the other side of the door, beet red in a dark red _ironed_ polo shirt buttoned all the way up. His slacks were pressed. His hair was combed. He looked like the biggest fucking nerd. 

It was doing it for him. What the fuck. 

He yanked Simmons in by the collar. “Did anyone see you?” 

“What the hell, Grif? What—I didn’t think there was any point in sneaking around now!” 

“You look like you’re going to your first dance!” 

“Hey, I—” Simmons paused, squinting at him. “Your hair’s wet. Did you shower again? Did you _shave?_ ”He made it sound like an accusation. 

Time for a distraction. “At least unbutton the collar, you look like you work at Sears.” 

Simmons almost dropped the datapad he had been clutching to his chest as Grif reached up and unbuttoned the first two buttons on his shirt, trying not to watch the way his throat bobbed. He actually did want to watch some BSG. 

“Popcorn?” he offered. Simmons came further into the room, eyes scanning everything. Apparently Grif hadn’t artfully messed his room up enough, but Simmons actually considered him and didn’t say anything about it. His shoulders relaxed a little when Simmons bitched about how little popcorn was left instead. 

The List of Rules was on both his datapad and hard copy. He actually _printed_ the list, like Grif was going to tack it on his wall in case he forgot. 

“You know I’m going to lose this immediately, right?” 

“That’s why I’m also sending it to you. It’s terms we are agreeing upon. You can let me know if you have any changes or suggestions." 

Nowhere in Simmons’ rules did it say no feelings, so Tucker could fuck right off. 

“'Rule #1: Don’t make it weird.'” Grif looked between the piece of _actual paper_ Simmons had in his hand, and the datapad, making sure Simmons really knew he was a basket case. “While you’re going over a list you printed and that’s more involved than a pre-nup. Guess we’ve got that covered. This isn’t weird at all.” 

“Shut up! I’m just trying to protect both interested parties!” 

Grif actually tried to look interested. 

Well, he didn’t fall asleep on him. 

There was a communication clause. That was definitely not going to work for either of them. 

Grif usually made it a point not to think about his feelings too much, which was sort of difficult right now. It was also hard not to think about what Simmons might or might not feel about him. He obviously liked what they did together. And he liked Grif in general or he wouldn’t have type-A’d the fuck out of the shaky arrangement they now had. 

Did they have to talk about it? Couldn’t they just keep going how they were? 

This whole thing was a risky move. But Simmons initiated it both times before tonight. He wanted more. Maybe not the same more that Grif wanted. But more was better than less, wasn’t it? 

Grif had gone through a gambling phase as a teenager. His luck had always been fucked so it hadn’t lasted long. But maybe this could be worth it. Even if it blew up in his face, he still had right now. Simmons in his room, avoiding his eyes with red ears talking about how he didn’t like PDA like Grif hadn’t already known that. Like he was going to start making out with him in front of Sarge and the entire army of Chorus. 

He had Simmons on his bed right now babbling about rules for them having sex. 

He had the memory of Simmons gasping underneath him. 

He didn’t want to pin him to the bed right now. He should wait a couple episodes first. Let Simmons start it. 

After Grif initialed and dated the agreement, narrowly suppressing the urge to draw a dick on it instead, they put on the show. They compromised between both of their favorite episodes since neither of them felt like starting a full rewatch tonight. 

Quarters were small but it was just the right size to project on the opposite wall like it was a big screen. They sprawled against the pillows on Grif’s bed up against the wall. 

They’d both seen it a million times so when Simmons had to pause it to launch into critical analysis he half listened. It was almost like any other night but his t-shirt and sweats were fresh and the bed wasn’t lumpy. Four episodes in, Grif stretched but didn’t make a move, feeling Simmons’ eyes on him. 

Oh yeah, he was thinking about it. 

When he looked up, Simmons wasn’t giving him that deer in the headlights look. Instead he reached over and brushed his thumb over Grif’s lips. 

He didn’t want to know what kind of look crossed his face. He blinked stupidly, until Simmons volunteered, “You had popcorn on…” 

Grif licked his lips, tasting the extra salt. 

“I got it,” Simmons said, red, but voice unwavering. Actually, he had that determined look, the one he got when he was trying to solve a math problem he’d thought of before the conversation switched gears and it was irrelevant. (He never won that battle.) 

Grif went to sit up and Simmons’ arm shot out to keep him down. It was the metal arm but it didn’t hurt or press, it still froze him in his tracks. People were screaming in the episode about cylons or something, but it was easy to tune out when Simmons leaned over him. “I-is this okay?” 

He didn’t know what the nerd was doing, but he said, ‘yeah’ and hoped his own voice was steady. He wasn’t inexperienced, how did this guy get his heart pounding like this? 

His hand traced up to Simmons’ jaw, pulling him closer with the other. Encouraged, Simmons followed him. 

Simmons’ lips met his hesitantly and Grif let him take the lead. He was soft about it, and part of it was definitely nerves. That softness tore Grif open. He could live the rest of his life like this. Kissing Simmons in their bed, in a room they shared every night. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is explicit.

At some point Grif had managed to sneak a hand out from under Simmons to remotely turn off the projector. And while the screaming and crying from the TV had been a little distracting for the mood, now there was a _mood_ and Simmons was starting to get nervous because all he could hear was their breathing and their skin sliding against each other. 

It didn’t seem to bother Grif. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. When he got stressed out all he would do is take a nap. 

Not that he was sleeping now. Grif was really intensely into what they were doing. He was _interested_ and he never seemed interested in doing anything aside from trying to decide who’d win in a fight, velociraptor or the Meta. 

Grif was also an infuriatingly fast learner when he was motivated. Cocky asshole. 

Simmons tried to vary it up a little by kissing up Grif’s neck but he had trouble getting any suction going with his lips. Grif was trembling so it must have felt good—Wait, no. The asshole was laughing at him! Simmons bit him. 

“OW!” 

But it turned out Grif liked being bitten when he was a little softer about it. When Grif moved his hips up and choked out “Fuck—Simmons,” his voice cracking, Simmons couldn’t help the frenzy that overcame him. It mattered a lot less that they were alone and all of Grif’s attention was on him. It felt _good._

And it was like that first kiss, like when Grif _dared him_ their first night together. It was confidence injected straight into his veins and he knew what he wanted. 

Pulling back to gauge Grif’s reaction he said, “I want to have sex.” 

Grif’s eyes were half lidded, but he smirked. “You always have to say everything like such a fucking nerd.” 

Was it normal to be pissed off and turned on at the same time? “How should I say it then, Grif?” 

Grif, that infuriating smirk still on his face, latched a warm broad hand around his wrist and leaned into his ear, his voice was low and gravely. “Wanna fuck?” 

Simmons shuddered. That wasn’t fair. It was the exact same thing! Why was it so much hotter when Grif said it? 

“How do you wanna do this?” Grif asked, a little softer. 

And shit he hadn’t really thought about—Well he had, a lot, but he should have written down what to say. 

His eyes drifted down to… “I want you to uh…” 

“To?” 

“Don’t make me say it, asshole.” 

“You’re the one who put communication in the contract,” he shrugged. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Simmons snarled before he remembered to be self-conscious about it. 

Oh, Grif was really surprised, his dark eyes widening, and Simmons wanted to leave. He didn’t think he could handle it if Grif said anything like he figured Simmons would want to take it. Oh god, he wished he never opened his mouth, they could just be watching TV like normal, he never should’ve— 

There was a warm mouth on his and a hand guiding his jaw and he couldn’t help kissing back as his mind went blissfully blank and quiet. 

“You want me to fuck you? Your first time?” Grif asked. 

Right, first time. Grif had pegged him as a virgin really quickly and those jokes usually didn’t bother him that much, but right now… 

A burning started up in the pit of his stomach. Of course Grif had been with people before they met. But he didn’t think Grif had ever been with other men. Except, he seemed to know what he was doing. 

Was there a jealousy clause? Cuz he definitely just broke it. They were still just friends and this was just stress relief! He shouldn’t be getting worked up about Grif with other people. They’d probably be with other people again someday. "Yeah. Is that a problem?" He meant to say it confidently, sexily, but his voice cracked a little. 

Grif shrugged. “No problem. We can do whatever you want. Less work for me the other way.” 

“Oh my god, that’s all you ever think about.” 

Simmons started regretting it when the stretch was too much too fast on two fingers, but Grif noticed right away and added more…lube... and the slide was easier. Then he started stroking Simmons with his unoccupied hand and it felt a lot better. Simmons couldn’t stop squirming, but then he started rocking, and the heat in Grif’s eyes was overwhelming. 

“Let’s get going,” Simmons said, restless. 

Maybe if Grif was busy getting off it would feel less intense. Simmons bit his lip against a groan when Grif’s fingers slid out. 

When Grif ripped open a condom, he realized there was no going back. This was happening. What if he wasn’t ready? But he suggested it. He suggested everything. Grif wouldn’t hate him if they stopped now. He might complain, or tease him for the rest of his life, but he'd been a little less teasing about stuff like this, but— 

“You okay?” Grif asked, one brow wrinkled in concern, and that decided it. Dick Simmons was no coward. 

“Fine.” Simmons pushed Grif down onto his back and got on his knees over him, bracing his hands on Grif’s shoulders, eyes following the patterns of scar tissue against light and dark skin as he pressed down slowly. 

It was something he’d read in a magazine once, that it might be easier on top to control the speed and— It was thick. Go slower. 

He couldn’t look at Grif while he was doing this... could he? Maybe he could. Curious, he snuck a peek only to meet Grif's gaze as he let Grif into his body. Simmons moaned, less from the sensation and more from the stomach-swooping effect of that look. 

They were both still for a minute, Simmons trying to tell how he felt about it. It was a weird feeling. And it didn’t feel terrible, but it didn't feel amazing either. 

Grif’s dark eyes locked on his again as Simmons rose up and then ground down. Grif’s mouth opened like he might say something, but it came out a soft moan. 

Simmons groaned back in answer, a fresh wash of heat rippling through him, making his toes curl. Every time Grif’s fingers tightened on his hips, he started moving more surely. 

Simmons leaned down to kiss him and jerked a little when the shift caused him to light up inside. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself, idiot,” Grif panted. 

Simmons didn’t feel very hurt, but Grif gently pushed Simmons off him. Fuck, that was a weird sensation. 

Grif rolled Simmons on his back, and then he was guiding himself back inside. It still stretched, but Simmons was distracted enough by his own dick needing attention. And that moment when Grif had to close his eyes and hold still like he was barely keeping it together. That was distracting. At least Simmons was good at sex if he could make someone look at him like that. 

When Grif opened his eyes and started moving, it was like Simmons was the center of the world. It wasn’t like porn at all. Grif kept looking at him, but he didn’t have time to feel nervous about it because it was Grif, and Grif always looked at him a lot. He looked so good right now. 

God, he was going to associate Grif sweaty and tired with _this_ , which was every training session longer than three minutes, and probably get a boner in front of everyone. 

He whimpered, biting his lip and started jerking off as Grif thrust hard and even and got into a much better rhythm than Simmons had managed. 

Grif was so soft and hot. He always ran hot, even when he’d been laying around the base all day. Simmons could feel the heat when he shoved him over on the couch so they could watch Netflix from feet away. That heat surrounded him now and it felt so good under his hands. 

Grif started chuckling and Simmons realized he had his hands on his sides. Why the fuck was he suddenly so ticklish? “What the fuck, Grif?” Fucking asshole. 

But the mood was still them and Grif was still moving and everything was building tighter and tighter. Grif thrust harder, eyes flickering between Simmons touching himself and his face. Simmons clenched his knees tighter. 

“You’re so good, Simmons,” Grif said. “Fuck, you feel so good. Ah—” 

Simmons’ hand tightened. “Oh god…” Why did he have to say things like that? It was so embarrassing. 

Grif was looking at him with such awe on his face, like Simmons was the hottest thing he’d ever seen and he _kept moving_ reaching out to join Simmons' hand around himself. 

Three more quick thrusts and Simmons throbbed, starting to come between them with a strangled noise. Grif thrust through it, moaning Simmons’ name and muttering nonsense and endearments and, _"I love you"_ against his throat and Simmons could feel him pulse _inside him_. All he could do was hang on to him through it, shuddering. 

Whenever he heard Grif’s voice from now on, he’d hear what he sounded like right now. Completely unraveled. He’d done that. They’d done this together. 

They came down, and Simmons was still shaking, trying to find grips on Grif’s body, not sure where to look or how to feel, but then Grif kissed him softly and everything made sense again. 

It wasn’t until they were as cleaned up as they could be, Grif curled around him in the dark, that Simmons remembered how Grif had kissed him, how he looked at him, what he had _said_ , and Simmons was filled with fear. 


	13. Chapter 13

There was a hand awkwardly patting his hair. 

Grif couldn’t help snorting a little. Half asleep, he grabbed Simmons’ hand and squeezed it, guiding him with his eyes still closed, showing him how to _actually_ touch someone’s hair. 

“Grif,” Simmons said with a hint of exasperation, and Grif realized he was probably just trying to wake him up. 

It wasn’t the way he _preferred_ Simmons to say his name, but he’d take it. He let go of Simmons’ hand to reach out and rub Simmons’ hair. It wasn’t neatly combed anymore. Back in the canyon, he used to antagonize Simmons when his helmet was off sometimes. All the time. Simmons always had it perfectly neat and combed in the morning, but if Grif kept at it Simmons would tug on it in frustration and fuck it all up. It looked better that way. 

…His hair was kind of damp. 

Grif peeked an eye open, then closed it quick again before he was spotted. 

“Grif!”  
  
Busted.  
  
Grif reluctantly opened his eyes for real.  
  
Simmons had pants on. He was _dressed._ He’d gotten up, showered, and let Grif sleep in? Something was definitely up.  
  
“Um,” Simmons said. 

“Time for breakfast?” Grif tried. But the tension in Simmons was different from yesterday. Long ago, he had memorized the many panicked faces of Simmons. Some of them were hilarious. This was Simmons about to face the firing squad. 

Simmons gulped, his eyes on a spot on the wall behind Grif’s head. “We should um... talk.” 

“Are you…okay?” Grif gave him a significant head tilt that Simmons understood if the way he turned bright red was any indication. 

“Not about that! I’m fine,” he barked out, voice cracking. “It was fine.” 

_Fine, huh?_

“Okay,” Grif said, stretching out his arms and cracking his back. Simmons eyed him, before shaking his head, giving himself some kind of internal pep talk that let Grif have a minute to prepare for whatever was going on. 

“Are you- You’re in love with me?” Simmons squeaked out, not meeting his eyes, shoulders curled in like he was trying to hide when he was the one asking the question. 

Uh… 

Like a lightning strike, Grif remembered. Simmons had been looking up at him, dazed, his mouth slightly open, and… Grif wanted everything. The fucking mortgage, carrying a shrieking and unsuspecting Simmons over the threshold, a stupid cat and a dumbass dog. Maybe a couple kids. 

It wasn’t something he hadn’t thought about before. Stupidly. When it hadn’t been something that would _ever fucking happen._

But high on endorphins or whatever the fuck, he couldn’t hold back. It didn’t seem ridiculous. It seemed possible and he wanted it and Simmons wanted him and they’d have a life together after this fucking stupid war. They’d have everything. 

And he said it out loud. 

_“I love you.”_

Simmons looked terrified. 

No wonder, they’d known each other for what seemed like forever now, but they’d only had this arrangement going for _24 hours._

Fuck. He fucked up. 

Time to shut this down as fast as possible. 

It felt odd to be having this conversation without pants when Simmons was fully dressed in front of him. He leveled the playing field by leveling his most unimpressed look at Simmons. 

“Does it matter?” Grif said finally. “You didn’t care before.” 

“Of course I— Of course it matters!” Simmons looked at the walls, the floors, the ceiling. “It… It wasn’t in the contract!” He looked triumphant. Like that proved something. 

Grif rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t _not_ in the contract. What do you want me to say?” 

“I—What?” 

“You’re the one making all the rules, Simmons. You started this. What’s the right answer?” 

“I- I don’t know. You—this—” 

It was a very careful line to walk, freaking Simmons out enough that they didn’t discuss this again forever, and making sure he didn’t go into complete meltdown. 

“Look, if you’re freaking out…” Grif said. “People say stuff during sex.” 

Simmons flinched. Grif couldn’t tell if it was because it was a blow, or him getting angry at himself for being naïve. Could be either or both. 

“I know that,” he snapped, but there was an uncertain waver to his mouth. Grif wouldn’t feel bad about it if Simmons believed him and he got away with it. But then he kept going. “But you have feelings.” 

“What do you want?” 

“I don’t know! I didn’t think—” 

“Then it doesn’t matter.” These last few days had been so up and down Grif didn’t know how to handle it anymore. “If it’s just sex, what do I care?” 

Simmons had that kicked look again and he seemed to curl into himself more even though he hadn’t moved. “Oh.” 

Grif was too tired to figure it out now. Talking to Simmons was like walking in a mine field. If he tried to fix anything else he’d just step on another bomb. Wasn’t this what he wanted? No strings or something? 

Grif wasn’t used to getting the things he wanted. Life was a shit show. Like that fourth circus circuit he was on with his mom and Kai until he convinced her it was better if they went back home so Kai could go to school for a while. ‘Course by then he couldn’t re-enroll. And things only went worse from there. 

So, Simmons had suddenly wanted to kiss him. Simmons wanted to have sex. Why not? The status quo was only stable if both parties wanted it that way. If he’d rejected Simmons he’d still lose him, so why not take the risk? 

Nothing to lose when life’s a losing game. 

Grif rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets back over himself like a shield. “Just fucking make up your mind.” He mumbled into the pillow. “I’ll be here I guess...” 

He got no response. 

When he looked up, Simmons was gone. 

Grif smashed his face into the pillow again, trying to get himself to fall asleep again so he didn’t have to be awake for the emotional fallout. What a fucking asshole not letting him have breakfast before starting this shit. 

Nothing to lose when life’s a losing game. 

But it suddenly felt like he could lose everything. 


	14. Chapter 14

Simmons was hiding—doing inventory in the armory.

It was monsoon season on Chorus. The walls of the compound were thick, but not thick enough to keep out the rushing sound of the torrents of rain in certain areas. 

Simmons wasn’t a fan of the rain. His parts weren’t rusted found objects, not anymore, but he still worried about water getting in and messing with his limbs. 

Then there was Grif. 

Grif confessed once that he got a lot more aches when it rained since the surgery. It hadn’t been a problem in Blood Gulch, so the first time it rained at their base in Valhalla, Simmons just thought he was trying to get out of work. That night, Grif had grimaced and tossed for hours trying to sleep during the rainstorm, and kept Simmons up in the process. 

The changing air pressure was a lot more intense on Chorus. 

Simmons needed to think. 

He didn’t want to think. 

Whenever Simmons thought of Grif’s …feelings… his chest got so tight he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

The way Grif touched him and moved in him and looked at him… 

But then Grif said it didn’t mean anything and now Simmons didn’t know what was worse. If it was just something you said during sex... That was true from what he’d seen on TV, and he didn’t want to seem naïve but… 

But the look on Grif’s face. 

Grif usually wasn’t that expressive unless he was being smug. Simmons was starting to realize how guarded he really was. Around everyone. Even around Simmons even though they’d been friends—sort of—for years. 

Grif was an idiot. 

Sometimes he said stuff that wasn’t even true. He hadn’t said anything much about his sister or his home, just a bunch of lies until his sister actually _showed up_ in Blood Gulch. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all. Especially if it was important. 

But it was so easy to believe him when he dismissed feelings. Especially feelings about him. 

_Why would he be in love with me anyway? I’m… I’m just…_

“Simmons~!” Simmons barely had time to cringe before Donut swung into the room fanning himself with several requisition forms and a clipboard. “I need three pistols and a color scheme for the wedding.” 

“Uh… what?” Simmons asked. 

“Well I don’t _need_ a color scheme, but it’s polite to give the grooms some input even if I ultimately ignore it,” Donut said brightly. 

At least Donut wasn’t implying he was the bride anymore. Wait— “Donut, _there’s no wedding_!” 

“If you say so. ‘No opinion,’” He announced as he scribbled something down. “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you’d be with Grif!” 

“Uh, no.” 

“What? Why? Did he not give you adequate aftercare? I’ll give him a stern dressing down!” 

It was kind of nice that Donut cared, but did he have to do it in the most embarrassing way possible? “No, it was—Everything was fine.” He winced when his voice cracked. 

“Then what’s the matter?” Donut’s helmet was tilted in concern, and Simmons didn’t really have any other friends to blurt his problems out to and Donut was right there. 

“He uh… said he loved me.” Donut started to gasp theatrically and Simmons cut him off. “But then he took it back, and we were just messing around." He couldn't stop fidgeting. He needed to organize. "I probably fucked it up. Or he’s fucking it up by having feelings. No one is supposed to have feelings." He went to grab the pistols Donut wanted. "Or maybe it’s all in my head. People say stuff during sex.” 

He was talking fast by the end and Donut moved in front of him and held up a gloved pointer finger to shush him. “Slow down. You’re saying this was an arrangement?” 

“Uh…" 

“Oh Simmons, those are never good without a contract and safe words and definitely not between people who have such a long history. You should have come to me first. Amateurs should not enter into these types of relationships.” 

“Uh, well we have a contract,” Simmons said. 

“Oh, let me take a peek!” Donut made grabby hands. 

“No! That’s private!” 

Donut clucked, but seemed to accept that like he didn’t think he was going to get to see it anyway and was just trying to see what Simmons would give him. “So, Grif told you he loved you. What did you say?” 

“Well, we were… uh. Later I asked him what he meant and then he took it back and said I was stupid and naïve and we were just having sex.” 

“That doesn’t sound like Grif…” 

Simmons crossed his arms. “What do you know?” Maybe he was paraphrasing, but that's what Grif said! 

“Maybe you’re just misunderstanding each other. How did you respond?” 

“I… I left. I don’t…He never told me he... had feelings before," Simmons said softly. "I didn't know." 

Donut gave him a flat stare. Was it really supposed to be that obvious? 

...Grif had been really into that first kiss. And then the next day when Simmons went to his room… 

Simmons was grateful for the helmet to hide the shame on his face. Donut didn’t even know about the first time Grif “told him.” 

But it was confusing! Why couldn’t anyone tell him what they meant? Just say it clearly. And tell him what they expected him to do about it. “What should I do?” Yeah, he was asking Donut, he was that desperate. 

Donut considered. “You know where Grif stands, even if he’s not the best at expressing his feelings. Anyway, that’s actually not what the most important thing is right now.” 

“Of course it is! That’s why I’m talking to you!" 

Donut shook his head. “No, Simmons. _Your_ feelings are the most important. Romance 101: How do _you_ feel about _Grif_?” 

That was the question. 

He felt his shoulders slump with the weight of it. 

How did he feel about Grif? 

Grif was… Grif was his best friend. Simmons had given up parts of his body to keep that fucker alive just so he could yell at him to take out the goddamn trash every week for the rest of eternity. 

But they also talked about Star Wars, and robots, and cyborgs, and the stars, and the universe, and cosmic coincidences. Grif listened to him like no one else in his life ever had. Like Simmons was important. And that was how it started, but it ended up that there wasn't a thing that happened that Simmons didn't want to know what Grif thought about it. 

And Simmons felt absurdly proud when he got Grif to laugh for real for the first time in the canyon. He remembered it, the sun glaring down on them in the middle of the night and the delirium from some shitty whiskey on top of the base and he thought Grif was kind of good looking when he tossed his head back and laughed like that. 

Then there was the panic in his chest when he thought he’d fucked it all up by kissing Grif. The thought that he might not talk to him every day anymore. That their easy relationship might be gone forever. 

And when Grif had acted like nothing happened, Simmons had his fucking brilliant idea to… to mess around with him too. 

But it wasn’t like that. It felt so… immense when he was with Grif. 

This was never meaningless at all. 

Maybe he’d never wanted it to be. 

Simmons had completely trapped himself into making a decision. 

Donut was looking at him expectantly, like _he_ was the one Simmons owed an answer to. 

“I have to go," Simmons stammered. "Somewhere else. Okay. Bye.” Simmons fled the room. He had to find Grif. 

“If you get on your knees and enthusiastically beg for forgiveness, he’ll come around!” Donut yelled after him. 

\- 

“I fucked up,” Grif sighed around his cigarette. “Fuck.” 

“So you fucked it up,” Tucker said. “After I _told you._ And now you’re here to whine and bitch about it. You owe me, dude.” 

Asshole. 

“I don’t owe you shit,” Grif said, slumping down against the wall. “You owed me last time.” They were hanging out in a storage room, the usual one, and it immediately occurred to Grif what a shitty idea that was when he was trying not to think about Simmons. At least Tucker was here with the goods to dull the pain. These Chorus storms really made him ache. 

Tucker offered him the choice of booze. When Grif saw the whiskey he was tempted, but tequila was better all the way. It burned and they didn’t have any salt or chasers, but the taste didn’t remind him of anything and that was the whole goal tonight. Well, it was more like the afternoon, but they didn't have to be anywhere. Fuck it. 

Tucker took the bottle from him after a couple of healthy swigs. "My stash is really suffering this week. Maybe all of this isn’t worth it when you’re this down about it." 

Grif flipped him off. "I don't judge you, man." 

"Hah! Yes you do!" Well, he did. But he kept it to himself. And Simmons. And to Tucker's face occasionally. Okay, yeah he judged Tucker a lot. 

"Okay fine. But it's not cool to kick a man when he's down then." 

Tucker waved him off, taking a swig of tequila. “Calm the fuck down, dude. I’m not insulting your… whatever. I’m saying maybe he needs to think about it. You should too, I mean, is it worth it? All this bouncing up and down? And not in the fun way.” He made a face and took another swig. "And I don't need those kind of details." 

Was it worth it? 

Yeah. If it worked out, no question. 

But Tucker had a point. Simmons had no idea what he wanted. Grif did. 

Maybe it was time to just give up. 


	15. Chapter 15

_‘I’m invoking the communication clause’_ the message read and Grif sighed like his soul was leaving his body. 

Grif was good at hiding. His talents lay in hiding, stealing food, and sneaking away from work without a trace. It was a little harder to hide on Chorus since he had people under him that liked to keep track of his every move. 

But that was taken care of too. Matthews claimed he would keep his location a secret til death, but Matthews would snap like dry pasta if anyone ranking questioned him, so only Bitters knew his true location, and Bitters was a lot of things, but he was also _loyal._ He’d never betray his Captain to the enemy— 

“Hey, asshole,” said Simmons. 

Grif almost gave himself a concussion banging his head against the undercarriage of the warthog he was resting his eyes under. _Fuck._

With an impatient knock that could only come from Simmons, Grif decided the jig was up and rolled out from under the vehicle as slowly as possible. Bitters and Simmons were both standing there in armor, Simmons with his arms crossed in front of him which meant he was definitely in a huff. 

“Et tu, Bitters?” 

Bitters shrugged. “Captain Simmons gave me five bucks. Can I go now?” 

Well, he had to respect that. 

“Yeah, dismissed. Also, you suck. Where’s the loyalty?” 

“You didn’t pick me for loyalty,” Bitters tossed over his shoulder. 

True, but his maverick moves were at _least_ supposed to be to Grif’s advantage. Not put him face to face with the guy he’d been able to expertly avoid the past day and a half. He’d even gone to the trouble of getting the tracker in his armor Simmons thought he didn’t know about disabled. But good old fashioned bribery had been Grif’s downfall. 

“Matthews is my favorite now!” Grif shouted after Bitters as he got up. 

“Thank you, sir!” Matthews chirped, materializing out of nowhere. 

“No one asked you, Matthews. You’re not my favorite anymore.” 

“Aw…” He shlumped off after Bitters, leaving Simmons and Grif alone in the motor pool, which was actually kinda weird. There were always people milling around at this time of day. Everyone suddenly disappearing was… suspicious. 

“So…” Simmons suddenly looked uncomfortable. “We haven’t talked since…” 

“Yeah.” Grif cut him off, hoping the whole conversation wouldn’t be this painful. If Simmons drew this out… well, there wasn’t much he could do about it since Simmons found him. He could tell him to look fast and run, but that would only take him so far with traitors in his midst. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Simmons said. 

“What was your first clue?” 

“Well, I couldn’t find you on the GPS—Uh-uhm, I mean…” 

Grif felt his face pull up into a smirk under his helmet, but it’d be funnier if his not-boyfriend wasn’t trying to break up their not-relationship. 

It’d also be funnier if he’d gotten more sleep. He’d tossed around the bed wasting precious sleeping hours wishing Simmons was with him. They shouldn’t fit so well together, but it was like his body was perfect in Grif’s arms. Even with the metal bits. 

And since he couldn’t hide from Simmons successfully—even after he’d disabled the tracker the nerd thought he didn’t know about—the nail was about to go in the coffin. The door was about to close forever. Pick your fucking metaphor. 

“So, the communications clause…” Grif started, pulling from Simmons’ message. “I say we strike that from the contract.” 

“Wait, what? But, we have to talk.” 

It’s like Simmons had been reading a _guidebook_ on how to break up in the most cliché way possible. “No, we don’t have to ‘talk.’ Talking never leads to anything good. Just get it over with.” 

Simmons was getting confused. Good, maybe he’d be confused enough that this talk wouldn’t reach it’s inevitable conclusion. 

“You- You have to be serious for a second!” 

“When do I ever want to talk about anything serious?” 

“But that’s the thing! You love to stand around and talk, but you never want to talk about stuff that matters!” 

Grif stuck his lip out. “That hurts.” 

“Stop joking around!” 

“So you’re saying you’d handle it well if I just said ‘ _hey, Simmons, I’m in love with you_?’” 

Simmons actually _recoiled._ Well, that stung. 

“Better casually than saying it during sex,” Simmons finally countered. “It’s—That’s not fair!” 

“What’s not fair? You can barely handle a physical relationship. You said you didn’t want things to change, but nothing’s changed for me.” 

“But—” 

“What did you come here for, Simmons? I _know it’s over,_ okay? You don’t have to keep bringing it up!” 

Simmons looked like Grif had actually hit him in the face. He didn’t even have to tell him to think fast. Simmons didn’t stop him when he left. 

\- 

That… really hadn’t gone the way Simmons wanted it to. But Grif was a fast talker for how slowly he did everything else and Simmons wasn’t sure he should track him down again so soon. It would just end with him saying fifty more of the wrong thing again. 

“What do I do?” 

He was talking to himself, but he was in Donut’s room, so Donut answered his rhetorical question. “I’m going to throw a party.” 

“A party?” 

“Yeah! A victory party! Everyone should have a chance to let their hair down and rock out!” 

“But why now? It’s been months since—” Since the big battle where they lost Church. Since the war ended. Since the rebuilding started. 

“Exactly!" Donut said, smacking his lips together and pulling out some lip gloss. "Now is the perfect time. No one will feel guilty partying and it’s _springtime_ , Simmons! Love is in the air! It’s the perfect opportunity!” 

“For what?” Simmons asked doubtfully. 

“For _MATCHMAKING_!” Donut said, lips shining. 

“ _What?_ Donut, I’m just trying to get Grif to talk to me.” 

“Simmons, listen to me, Grif is a man of action.” 

“Uh… I think you mean inaction.” But he was listening. He'd even take advice from Donut at this point. 

“No! I mean when it comes to _love._ Grif's more physical. He'll respond more to _touch_ than a traditional verbal communicator. Actions speak louder than words." Donut's grin widened and Simmons braced himself for the punchline. "If you can’t tell him how you feel you can seduce him on the dance floor!” 

“Uh…I think you’re overestimating my dancing skills.” 

Donut still looked worryingly confident. "Just leave it all to me, Simmons."


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All fun and games until someone loses an eye, and an arm, and a leg, and various internal organs. Then it was huge and fathomless and one of life’s great mysteries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's soundtrack was "Sorrow" by The National.

Grif didn’t know when he started falling for Simmons. It was gradual, like getting a plantar’s wart or a tooth abscess. 

Grif had been through hell at his first post, and instead of being honorably discharged—or hell, dishonorably, he just wanted to go home—they’d taken his statements, sent his babbling ass for a psych eval and some drugs, and put him on a ship bound for nowhere. 

He was so sedated at that point he didn’t realize he wasn’t going home til they shoved him out of the ship at Blood Gulch Outpost #1. No smiling sister to greet him, just more misery. 

Grif felt so… slow for a while, quiet, tired. 

His sister probably wouldn’t even recognize him if he’d gone home anyway. No use fucking her up more than he and mom already did raising her. She didn’t need some useless depressed PTSD basket case, half addicted to fucking opiates so he could get a couple hours of sleep at a time without screaming. 

Sarge should’ve been the first to see how fucked up he was, but instead of leaving him to get killed by a lucky Blue so he could get a _real_ soldier that wouldn’t get them all slaughtered, Sarge wouldn’t leave him alone. He still said how he was useless and all of that, but he still made him _do stuff_. 

Which wasn’t different from how any other military base might work, but Blood Gulch Outpost #1 was _Twilight Zone_ levels of fucked up. The longer they were stationed there, the more the rules of reality warped. Normally that kind of thing would interest him, but he was so numb he couldn’t bring himself to care. Sarge's shotgun and training exercises made him move though. 

Private First-Class Simmons was too much of a self-involved kiss ass for Grif to pay any attention to at first. Simmons even seemed _jealous_ of Sarge’s negative attention, but he had no trouble joining right in with the put downs and ordering around. It was the kind of bullshit Grif usually couldn't stand. He should have hated Dick Simmons immediately. But somehow, the uptight nerd--who was _definitely_ voted teacher's pet through high school--being so fucking insecure that he thought Grif was _competition_ woke Grif up. 

For the most part, no one ever gave a fuck about what Grif did. To have someone care _so much_ that they would scream and be up his ass about stuff that didn’t even matter was heady. 

It wasn’t that deep. Simmons was fun to tease and projected his thoughts and emotions so loudly it was easy to read him, and reading people was one of Grif’s more useful habits. Simmons was a total spaz, an idiot who had good taste in sci-fi, and only selectively knew how smart he was because he was so fucking insecure. One time, Grif dedicated a whole week to seeing how high a pitch he could get Simmons’ voice to go just by deliberately putting the bags of trash he’d been ordered to take out anywhere except the trash pile outside. Imagined how red Simmons' face could get when he was that pissed off and then put plans in motion to make it happen. 

Definitely not Grif’s type in any universe but this one, but Simmons was kind of cute in a terrible way. And he never left Grif alone. He railed and yelled but he seemed to be just as pulled to Grif as Grif was to him. Some kind of invisible gravitational force between them that was more than just Simmons being bitter he was the only one trying at this being a soldier thing, and Grif secretly craving any kind of attention from anyone—someone to react at all to the way he was sub-sonically screaming. 

Once they got a rookie on the team, things got better. Having someone new to gang up on was one of the easiest ways to bond with someone else, and Donut was also clearly Sarge’s new favorite, aside from Lopez. Grif and Simmons just kept falling into step, and Grif couldn’t tell why he hated Simmons the least out of everyone in this stupid fucking canyon. They still might have kept the fighting and exaggeratedly hating each other act up forever, but then Tucker ran Grif over with a tank. 

“What...?” Grif asked, confused. 

“Yeah, Simmons was crying, begging Sarge to save you,” Donut said, continuing to file his nails at Grif’s bedside and getting the nail dust everywhere. “We all thought it was hopeless. Your spleen was eviscerated, and not in the fun way. A spleen _sounds_ useless, but ruptured organs are no good for your health. Doc told me that once.” 

Grif blinked at the ceiling foggily. He was still on a lot of pain meds, he’d have to watch that— But what Donut was saying made no sense. 

“Simmons cries when I try to make a jenga tower out of the dishes,” Grif finally replied. “It doesn’t mean anything. Sarge wanted a cyborg anyway. It was just another way to kiss up.” 

Nurse Donut shook his head. “Not that we don’t care, but we really didn’t think you were gonna make it. And if you did, you’d suffer a slow agonizing death. But somehow we all believed hard enough—and Sarge performed five delicate surgeries with stuff we found around the base—and a miracle happened!” 

All fun and games until someone loses an eye, and an arm, and a leg, and various internal organs. Then it was huge and fathomless and one of life’s great mysteries. All his life teachers, bosses, cops, the town losers—even his own mother knew he wouldn’t amount to anything. Why would Simmons let Sarge experiment on him just to save Grif’s worthless life? 

When they traveled back in time, or forward in time—the first thought he had was wondering if Simmons was okay. He didn’t hate Simmons. At all. Kind of the opposite. It was fucking terrifying. 

But he started noticing that Simmons looked to him now too. For confirmation, affirmation. He _mattered._ And Simmons mattered to him. So much. It was more addictive than anything else he’d ever had. 

Suddenly he’d wake up from dreams of Simmons, to actual Simmons yelling at him to get up in the morning, because they shared barracks and Grif had always been extremely unlucky. He tried to fight it, to get away from him, but there was not much that could be done at this point. All it did was make Simmons ask him if he’d done something wrong after weeks of Grif trying unsuccessfully to avoid him and distance himself. Simmons with that truly hurt expression because of _him_ had to be avoided at all costs. 

Making peace with the fact that he had a crush on such a complete dork took a while, but he found himself flirting with him a couple times. Simmons always got so skittish. It was better to just leave things the way they were. 

They always had each other’s backs when it mattered. Whether defending themselves against Officer Hotpants, or outsmarting Sarge’s plans to get them all killed in a glorious battle, getting kidnapped by psychos, or thrown off of cliffs. 

Now, lying on the floor of Tucker’s room, his mind swirling with memories and his stomach twirling from too much tequila, images of Simmons and all the years they’d been together spun through his head. And the nights they’d had so recently. That precious sweet taste of a life he’d never let himself think about for too long. Simmons' nails and teeth, the sound of his name in the dark, and kisses that tasted like whiskey. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can’t do everything for you. I did the party planning, I picked your outfit. Grif’s in love with you and you’re in love with him. Pick any dance rom-com and emulate it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listened to "1000 Times" by Sara Bareilles and Savage Garden's "Truly Madly Deeply" for this one. Get ready. 
> 
> A little epilogue should be up tomorrow. Thanks for all the support. This was my first multi-chapter fic, and it's obvious I didn't know where I was going. I was hungover and I just wanted grimmons to make out in a supply closet. Look where we are now.

Victory party in T-minus one hour. 

Simmons isn’t a party planner, but he’d thought you’d want at least two weeks’ notice, maybe a month to be safe. Time for invited people to say sure, _of course I’ll go_ , stew over it, and find an excuse not to go the day before. It was only polite. 

But Donut pulled it all together and got the word out, and with only an hour left to go, Simmons felt like _he_ hadn’t had enough time to stew about it. 

“Dammit, Donut! Why did you have to tell me I fucked up and get me to address my feelings?” he grumbled. 

“Hey, if I have to play the sassy best friend with you, I at least get to revel in your pain.” They were in Donut’s room and he mixed another super strong cocktail. “Here. Fill your mouth.” 

“Gross,” Simmons muttered but still took a gulp. Self-medication time. 

“Double-O-Donut at your full service!” 

“Stop,” he said half-heartedly. “So, there’s a plan, right? Since the party’s in an hour? What’s the plan? What do I do? What do I say?” 

“Less talking, more swallowing.” 

Simmons groaned. 

“The plan is that Tucker’s got Grif handled and will make sure he comes. Then you walk into the room in your hot outfit, the spotlight is on you, everyone gasps at my artistic genius, and then you dance like you’ve never danced before. Grif falls to his knees, mouth agape, and then—” 

“Back up. You’re leaving it to me?” 

Donut huffed. “I can’t do everything for you. I did the party planning, I picked your outfit. Grif’s in love with you and you’re in love with him. Pick any dance rom-com and emulate it.” 

“There will be no dancing. And do you have to say love so much?” 

“ _Simmons._ The whole _point_ of this is for you to tell him how you feel. You have to use the L word! And I don’t mean lesbians.” 

Simmons frowned. “Can you get a status update from Tucker again? Is Grif really moping? Did he say anything about me?” 

“Hush.” Donut poured him another cup of punch. “Save it for the dance floor, Simmons.” 

He got Tucker to send him a picture of Grif flipping the camera off in _a button down shirt?_ The first two buttons were undone and he looked a little disheveled, but in a good way. Simmons drained his punch. 

“I said Patrick Swayze from _Dirty Dancing_ , not Patrick Swayze from _Ghost_!” Donut said. 

“Hey, it’s been a while since our 80’s movie marathon in the desert. What’s the difference? He’s Swayzeyed up.” Tucker said. “I can’t stay on the call long. Grif will be back from crying in the bathroom over his broken heart any second.” 

“He’s crying?” Simmons interjected. 

“Nah, he’s just doing his hair or something. I told him he has to be my wingman tonight since he drank all the booze and keeps whining about you.” 

Simmons gulped. 

“Well, pillowed sleeves can be romantic. And maroon _is_ Simmons’ color.” Donut huffed. “Okay, fine, I can work with this if I change Simmons’ tie.” 

Simmons sucked down his third fruit punch. Donut made drinks really good and he needed the time to relax. It tasted _really_ fruity, but it went down easy. Maybe the sugar would help his nerves. They couldn’t be _that_ alcoholic. 

\- 

An abandoned theatre was objectively a pretty cool place to hold a party. If you were a rich teen from a cheap 21st century drama and not a colony that God and the UNSC abandoned that was recovering from a decade of war and hadn’t rebuilt any leisure spaces yet. 

Grif stepped in the weird back entrance Tucker led him to skeptically, but as long as there was booze and not too many holes in the floor from mortars, it’d be fine. 

He fiddled with his shirt collar again. It was weird being in _ironed_ clothes. And a maroon dress shirt too. He’d think it was Simmons’ if it wasn’t Grif’s size. And he didn’t want to think about Simmons either. Tucker had insisted he dress up though, and plied him with promises of free drinks and haggling over the best contraband. Still weird being dressed up. 

Donut had obviously decorated for the party, because the backstage area they stepped into looked like one of his wine and cheese hours, a bar mitzvah reception, and a middle school dance on steroids. The lights were dim with a disco ball spinning and reflecting fractals of light everywhere. Soft 80s and 90s of 20th century Earth pop played on an old boom box. 

How did Donut get all these antiques? He probably thought it was playfully ironic or something. It definitely helped with the teen nightmare mood. 

Weirdly, the area he was in was decorated, but it was also empty. There was no one there. “What the hell’s going on, Tucker? You said there was a party, you made me get dressed to help you pick up chicks—” 

The door he just came through slammed shut and locked. He was alone. Grif whipped around, suddenly getting the sinking feeling that he was about to be murdered. 

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him. Simmons. 

Oh shit. It was a trap. A set up. 

He started looking for escape, but since this was a trap the entrance he came through was definitely blocked. There might be another stage exit to the outside in the other corner. The curtain was drawn shut. If he got through it and leapt off the stage maybe he could get out through the front of the theater. 

Simmons saw him eyeing the curtain and came closer as the song changed to something soft and corny. His outfit was ridiculous. He was wearing a jacket over a white button-down and a maroon tie. His pants looked _painted on_ and his hair was shining and styled so perfectly. 

Fucking goddammit. Simmons looked so good. Grif wanted to push him up against the nearest wall and mess him up, but that didn’t work with their new relationship status, which was friends with no benefits. Maybe friends. If he could talk to him again. In like, a while. Some other time. 

“I just want to talk,” Simmons said, creeping closer like he was trying not to scare off a skittish animal, as the song in the background crescendoed into a feelingsy chorus. This was so unfair. 

“You’re not good at talking, Simmons,” Grif bit out. “You’re good at other stuff.” 

Simmons flushed. Whoa, he’d that taken that different than Grif meant it. 

“You weren’t bad either,” Simmons said softly, eyes on his skin and then lips as he leaned in. Grif forgot he was supposed to be distancing himself, not sure where to move and feeling more trapped by the second. “Dance with me.” 

“Are you fucking serious?” Before Grif could even finish, Simmons grabbed him with a lopsided smile and spun Grif out to the open stage space. 

“You’re _tanked,”_ Grif gasped. Simmons had always been a happy drunk. 

“Okay, yeah, maybe. A little. Little bit.” He still looked absurdly proud of himself, cheeks flushed and his hair artfully messy. 

Definitely Donut’s doing. As was the outfit, the collar stark against his neck—and was that a bruise there? Fuck. Grif swallowed. His heart skipped a beat when Simmons beamed at him warmly. “Listen. I can’t—” 

How much had Donut given him to drink? Grif was getting dizzy and he tried to tell himself if it was his own pre-gaming going to his head and not being so close to Simmons after two days of camping out in Tucker’s room acting pathetic and heartbroken. 

Yeah, he wasn’t pathetic. Why not have a little casual no-feelings fun? No way he could hurt himself now when it was definitely all over, right? This line of thinking had burned him no less than three or four times in the past _week._

“Now you’re the one thinking too hard.” Simmons said, bumping his forehead into Grif’s. “Talk to me.” 

Grif tightened the hand that had gone to Simmons’ waist to hang on, and Simmons covered it with his own hand. “I can’t—” 

“Oh. Right. Less talk, more action, right?” Simmons pulled him in close and there was no one else but them, but Grif still felt like there were eyes all over them. Maybe God was laughing at what an idiot he was, or whatever all-knowing cosmic force existed in the universe. Good ol’ Dexter Grif. Favorite target. Fate’s bitch. 

“Stop thinking,” Simmons said, furrowing his brow. “I’m the smart one, right? So just listen to me.” 

When he tensed to run away, Simmons’ grip tightened. No fighting the cyborg arm. “Fine,” Grif said. Shit, he was fucking mush when the nerd got assertive. 

Now Simmons' nose scrunched into his own exaggerated thinking face. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get it. I- No one’s ever loved me before. ...I... I've never loved anyone else before.” 

Wait–What? 

At the L word, Grif’s brain started blue-screening, but he stopped trying to run. Simmons’ flushed face was so close. He was drunk and Grif was buzzed and that had to be why his heart was beating so fast, because Simmons wasn’t saying what Grif thought he was saying. He was misunderstanding things. There was no way. 

“I love you, Grif.” 

Grif felt like he’d been shot. 

There was a time he thought he could take it forever, but now… Now he didn’t know how many more times he could deal with this. It was like being in a game of volleyball, except he was the ball. 

He’d always hated Grifball. 

“You’re drunk,” Grif said, accusingly this time, but also desperately, in a way that was asking ‘ _Is this for real?’_ and ‘ _How do I know?’_ and _‘What if you sober up, or the morning after you realize—’_

“No takebacks,” Simmons said certainly, swooping in for a kiss so fast their teeth bumped against the inside of their lips, but Simmons softened in apology, lips wandering to his jaw and then teeth scraping into his neck, and it was like that first time in the supply room, but Simmons had been really drunk then. _He’d_ been really drunk. And look where all of that got them. 

But Simmons didn’t pull back or shake himself out of it or run away. He popped another button on Grif’s shirt to get more room to work, and Grif’s toes curled, wondering if Simmons was okay with an open floor plan by the beach somewhere. 

Simmons was backing him up against the wall, ropes and pulleys and the thick fabric of the curtain surrounding them. Simmons’ long fingers were getting a little friendly with his belt area, when there was the _fwump_ sound of thick fabric and then Donut yelling “ _Surprise!,”_ his amplified voice echoing over the music. 

The sound was the curtains parting, because Grif had terrible fucking coworkers, and Grif and Simmons were on a fucking stage, and the curtain pulled back like they were the opening act at a fucking talent show. 

There had been seats in the theatre, but they’d been ripped up to create a cleared floor for dancing where everyone was congregated now. Tables with food, a bar, and a larger sound system lined the former outer aisles. Half of Chorus and all their friends were there. The lieutenants up front whooped and hollered, Simmons’ squad screaming the loudest. Tucker grinned from the back giving him a double thumbs up. Fucker. 

“ _Oh, it looks like the happy couple’s already getting frisky! Save it for the honeymoon, horndogs!”_ Of course Donut had a fucking megaphone. Through the surreality of the situation, Grif remembered that first kiss with Simmons, wanting to make an announcement to all of Chorus through the sound system. Shout it from the rooftops. 

Fucking Donut.

Bright side, at least they wouldn’t have to deal with everyone finding out they were dating—or whatever they were doing now—one at a time. 

“ _Now!”_ Donut said, resplendent in a sparkling _pink tux_ like he was the master of ceremonies and this was his proudest achievement. 

On cue, Tucker pulled a rope, and a banner at the back of the room unfurled. It said _Engaged!_ in gold calligraphy, with orange and maroon hearts painted around it. 

Of course. If Donut was ruining this for Grif— Wait. Simmons had been waiting here. Tucker had made Grif dress up nice and herded him here. Simmons had to be in on this plan. Did that mean— 

Simmons was flushed and scowling, and reluctantly putting his hands into more respectable areas on Grif to protect his squad’s innocence, but he didn’t freak out at all the attention or pull away. 

“Come on, guys!” Tucker shouted. “Gotta keep the people interested!” 

Grif’s heart was beating hard again. Stupid anxious Simmons’ heart. Never knew when to calm down. “You went from zero to proposal,” Grif joked, voice weaker than he meant for it to be. 

“Donut didn’t tell me about the sign,” Simmons smiled and scratched the back of his head. “But…” Simmons reached into his pocket. 

Grif froze, and it was like there was no one else there but them, even with Matthews and Palomo theatrically gasping before Donut and Jensen harshly shushed them. 

Simmons hummed and pulled a wrinkled packet of papers out of his belt. Grif recognized it as Simmons’ dumb contract after a second. “What—” 

Simmons ripped the paper up and threw it off the stage. “I mean it. No rules. I just want to be with you." Simmons cupped Grif's face and said it clearly, while looking into his eyes. "I love you.” 

Grif didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing til he started up again. He barely had time to fill his lungs before Simmons took him in his arms in front of all their friends, stealing his breath away, and actually fucking dipping him like this was the end of a movie. Goddammit, he was falling for it. 

“Let’s make it weird,” Simmons breathed against his lips. 

“Okay, that’s too much,” Grif croaked. 

Simmons looked stricken. Grif avoided his eyes, but kissed Simmons lightly. 

“I don’t mean 'no,'” Grif said quickly. “I just mean you can stop talking now. Donut’s recording this.” Donut waved from the crowd like a happy parent at his kid’s first play with a comically large camcorder. “I don’t want you to banish yourself to the jungle out of humiliation later.” 

“I wouldn’t,” Simmons murmured, eyes kind of heated now, and Grif suddenly wanted to make this conversation more private as Simmons carded his fingers through Grif's hair. 

“You would. You definitely will. But I’ll follow you. If you want me to,” Grif added low, trying to keep the doubt out of his voice. 

Simmons beamed like sunlight. “I want you to. I missed you.” 

Grif realized he was holding Simmons’ hand and squeezed. “I missed you too.” 

Grif dipped Simmons this time, and they both lost themselves in the moment, until there was a whoop from somewhere below and Grif realized Simmons was grabbing his ass in front of half of Chorus. 

About that time, he realized he was a lot more drunk than he thought, and he should probably put Simmons to bed too, before they permanently scarred anyone with public exhibitionism. 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Uh… aren’t you leaving?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a short epilogue, but you know how these things go. Thank you for all the support, guys. Finally finishing this story made me extremely emotional. <3

It was too bright and the room was spinning and every half formed thought seemed to take a day to get through. 

Simmons’ memory of the night was a _little_ fuzzy after the party. Vague memory of Grif walking him home. Tripping in a pot hole and taking Grif down with him when he tried to help him up. Laughing and holding his hand because he could tell Grif liked that. Pressing him against a brick wall in a dark space before they got to the compound to steal some more kisses and bites and tastes because he can touch Grif whenever he wants and Grif wants him to. 

Finally tumbling into bed and being too drunk to do much but insist on Grif getting them two glasses of water. Grif moaning and complaining but doing it, and finally closing his arms around him. They fit together so well. Simmons had the deepest, best sleep in ages. 

Now he had a headache. The water was not a good hangover cure if you passed out before you drank it. 

Simmons envisioned sitting up, rolling over to the bedside table, draining the glass, and settling back into bed several times, but he wasn’t moving. He was so comfortable and warm, and moving would make his head worse, he knew it. 

Enough. Action. Open your eyes. 

His lips were dry and stuck together and he whined at the sharp pain that lanced through his brain, closing his eyes again. 

“How’s the hangover, dufus?” a sleepy voice asked, arm tightening around his back. 

“Mmmmmghhh,” he replied, taking stock of his position. He was still fully dressed, sprawled on top of Grif. He’d gotten most of Grif’s shirt unbuttoned at some point between the party and getting back to Grif’s room. “It worked?” 

“Huh? What worked?” 

“The dance thing.” Simmons clenched his eyes shut and then opened them again, hoping that would clear the fog. “Donut told me to seduce you with the power of dance or something, and it would work better than talking. I can’t believe he was right. Did I… ask you to marry me?” 

“No, Donut asked me to marry you. You told me we were free of contractual obligations.” 

“Oh my _god…_ I don’t know how many different types of alcohol Donut put in that punch.” Simmons huffed and laid his head so he could listen to Grif’s heart beat slowly and steadily under him. 

“A lot. You should know better.” Grif drew breath like he might say something, or ask a question, but it never came. 

Simmons let it go, number one priority trying to figure out how to get water and Tylenol without moving. The most difficult problem he had ever faced. How to bend the laws of physics. 

They lay there quietly, until Grif finally said, “Uh… aren’t you leaving?” 

Simmons lifted his head to look up at Grif, a Herculean effort. “Leaving? What do you mean?” 

“You- this is the part where you remember the embarrassing stuff you said and the embarrassing stuff you did—I’m sure Donut’s backed up the footage in a billion different places by now—and you leave.” His voice was matter of fact, but his eyes were worried. This close it was impossible to miss. 

Simmons shook his head slowly. “I’m not leaving.” His head was still pounding, but this was important. “You don’t want me to, do you?” 

“ _NO._ No. I—” Now he just looked confused. If Simmons wasn’t slowly dying of the worst hangover in the history of the universe, it would be really cute. “This is different from how it usually goes.” 

“How about I phrase it like this? Everything I said last night was true.” He tried to say it as simple as he could, looking directly in Grif’s eyes so he actually _got it._ If Simmons letting Donut plan a weird epic scheme to get Grif back wasn’t enough, he didn’t really know how else to convince him. 

“Look, if this is just because you think you’ll lose me as a friend, you don’t have to say it back. I shouldn’t have just sprung shit on you like that—I wasn’t even thinking—” Grif was babbling a little, which was super weird, but there was no escaping the conversation with Simmons on top of him. 

“Shut up, Grif.” Simmons crawled up his body and felt bold enough to kiss him. Less talk, more action. It worked before, right? 

Tension in Grif’s muscles that Simmons hadn’t noticed melted away as Grif melted into him and kissed him back. Slowly, reverently, like that first hangover when Grif was trying to tell him and Simmons hadn’t been listening. The way he kissed Simmons said he loved him. 

Finally Simmons pulled back. “You know I’m not good at people. I’m new to this. I don’t know anything about how to do… this. But if I can do it with you, if we can be together, that’s what I want.” 

Grif didn’t look as rough as Simmons felt, his eyes bright and alert. Like he was trying to memorize every word for later. Savor this in case it fell apart again, but the joke was on him. Simmons was in this forever. 

“I’m not good at relationship stuff either. It’s—you just do what feels right. What feels good.” 

“You feel good,” Simmons said. 

Grif’s arms tightened around him like he wasn’t conscious of it, and Simmons felt the warmth of having Grif’s full attention. 

“I love you, Dexter Grif.” 

Grif’s expression was all awe and it felt so good. Grif loved him. Simmons loved him back. 

Headaches did not pause for epic moments though. After some sappy eye contact, Simmons started to crawl away pathetically. “I’m not running away from you, I’m just getting the Tylenol.” 

Grif still pulled him back in and cradled his head as he kissed him again, every movement telegraphed and gentle. “I love you,” he said in a low voice against Simmons’ mouth, like it wasn’t even for Simmons to hear. Like he was afraid Simmons would change his mind if he said it too loud. 

As long as they were alive, Simmons would tell him every day. As long as it took. 

Instead of Bride and Groom sections, the wedding party was separated by Red and Blue. All their friends were there, and Tucker wouldn’t let them forget how they got engaged. Donut named himself best man and ran the wedding like a military operation. Sarge was officiating, until he broke down in sobs before the rings were presented by Caboose. Lopez had to take over, so the end of the ceremony was in Spanish. It didn't matter that hardly anyone spoke the language. Everything had already been said anyway. 

As long as they were alive, Grif would hold him every day. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic brought to you by a massive hangover and listening to grimmons playlists.


End file.
